Iphigenia
by lockedaway0
Summary: Fifteen year-old Iphigenia Norton has never had a normal life. Growing up under the care of an abusive foster mother, her only family was her protective- and often wild and self-destructive- older foster sister Meghan and oddball foster brother Greg. When Meghan leaves their small backwoods town of Brookestone, Maine, for college, Iphigenia- (summary continued inside)
1. ONE

**A/N: Hey, y'all! This is a next-generation FanFiction about _The Truth About Forever, _which introduces new characters as well as characters from the book. This considered, I'd like to point out a few things. First: this is a NEXT-GENERATION FANFICTION. It's about a new character discovering her past and coming to terms with who she is, and the old characters from _Truth About Forever _won't be introduced right away. Don't worry; they'll still be major parts in the story, but they'll just be introduced a few chapters from now. Secondly: this is a sad story. I'm not gonna deny it. To be honest, _The Truth About Forever _is a sad story. So while this might be a sad story, I still hope that y'all enjoy it and get to the happy parts. And finally, thirdly: I am an amateur writer, and would love for people to give me feedback, negative or positive!  
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**Disclaimer: Nope. Not Sarah Dessen. Don't own _Truth About Forever. _**

**Rating: T (PG-13) **

**Summary: Fifteen year-old Iphigenia Norton has never had a normal life. Growing up under the care of an abusive foster mother, her only family was her protective- and often wild and self-destructive- older foster sister Meghan and oddball foster brother Greg. When Meghan leaves their small backwoods town of Brookestone, Maine, for college, Iphigenia decides to take a chance. Running away from the only home she's ever known, Iphigenia goes in search of her birth parents, hoping against hope that they'll take her in and shelter her from the misery that she's had to undergo. What unfolds is a heartbreaking, twisting drama that will either have Iphigenia packing her bags or living a happily-ever-after. **

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><p><em>Family is not an important thing. It's everything.<em>

_-Michael J. Fox_

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><p><strong>ONE<strong>

MEGHAN WAS LEAVING.

She had left before, of course. Over the years, it had amounted to about six or seven times- once or twice in middle school, a few times in high school. After the fourth or fifth time, I stopped counting. It became too painful to think about all the times that she had left me behind, grasping at straws for reasons she might have left me. But this time, Meghan was leaving for good. And it wasn't just to get away.

I sat on the edge of my bed in the room that Meg and I shared. We had divided the room economically when I was seven and Meghan ten, using a roll of yellow duct tape. A stripe of yellow went through our room, all the way from the floor and across the ceiling. It was a bit jagged and crooked, but Meghan and I still obeyed it religiously. Most of the time. It was the one piece of our room that had changed since I moved into it a decade ago and Meghan moved in thirteen years ago. Our shared beat-up dresser, deteriorating bathroom (chipping floor tiles, mildew-growing shower, and all), and small, creaky wooden beds were still the same. We had grown up here, us evolving and changing while the room stayed the same. And now Meghan was leaving for good.

Meghan had been packing for only a half an hour, but it was still nearly done. Our belongings were precious little: a few pairs of clothes, a sentimental object, a pair of beat-up gym shoes, some school supplies, a blanket, and a pillow. Our belongings were nearly identical.

All of her things had been unceremoniously dumped into a suitcase. Meghan was never one for neatness; that was me. I was a bit of a minimalist. Even if I had money to waste, I never bought anything that I didn't need. What I did need, I bought with my own cash, but there wasn't much.

"Are you sure that you've remembered anything?" I asked her now. I was anxious for more than one reason. Part of me was heartbroken for the simple fact of my foster sister leaving, while the other part of me was worried about her safety. Meghan had never been especially smart- in book smarts _or _in street smarts.

Meghan threw me a look. "You know," she said dryly, "I am three years your senior, Nia. You don't have to babysit me. I know how to take care of myself. Trust me, okay?"

"I'm trying, Meg," I said, walking over across the yellow line. Meghan glared at me, a bit petulantly, I thought, but I disregarded it. I unzipped her suitcase and began to repack her clothes, folding them neatly and stacking them in piles. "But you don't make it easy."

"Oh, thanks for the vote of faith," Meghan said. "Look. I'm gonna be fine. I've worked my ass off for the last year and a half to get here, and I'm not going to blow it now. I promise."

It was hard to see the faults in Meghan when she was so earnest. Luckily, I had plenty of practice dodging Meghan's notorious puppy-dog ways and immoral shortcuts. "NYU isn't going to be like Brookestone, Meghan," I said. "You aren't just going to get your way with a snap of your fingers."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Mom." Meghan rolled her eyes, snapping her Double Bubble chewing gum. I wrinkled my nose as the sickly-sweet aroma of bubble gum wafted over to my nose, glaring at her. She held up her hands in surrender. "I'll be fine, alright? I promise."

I wasn't so sure. Meghan might have taken care of me when I was a child, but her sacrifices for me were different than my sacrifices for her. Different didn't always mean more, and I wasn't sure if I would still be alive today if it hadn't been for Meghan's protection, but I was grown up now, while Meghan wasn't a day older than thirteen.

My lips tightened. "I mean it, Meghan. New York City isn't some backcountry small town where you can get away with just about anything by flashing some state troop patroller."

"That was one time!" she said exasperatedly. "_One time_!"

"I don't care if it was one time or a thousand," I told her. "It won't matter once you're in New York. If you try and flash a cop, they'll have you arrested and fined before you can even blink. You're a dime a dozen in the Big Apple, not one in a million."

She flopped down onto her bare mattress. "Always charming, darling."

"I'm not saying that I'm charming. I've never been charming. What I am is _truthful. _You can't hide from the truth, Meg. It's physically impossible. You can't lie and cheat and bargain your way out of every situation. Rules are different down there."

"So you've told me," she said. Meghan just rolled her crystalline-blue eyes, shaking her long mane of honey-blonde curls. "Look, Nia. I understand what you're trying to do for me. But I'm not that girl anymore. I've changed. Ever since I started trying to get into college, I started changing. You saw it. Greg saw it," she said, referencing our foster brother. "Even _Julie _saw it."

I thought about this. I had seen it. Julie, our foster mother, had seen it, too; and it hadn't just been the liquor bottles that were missing from her cabinet. Meghan had begun to try. And for a while, she worked hard.

But all good things had to end. As soon as Meghan got accepted into NYU, she started reverting back to the person she had been before she saw a future. I worried about her. Constantly. We looked out for each other, Greg and Meghan and I, and with a crucial link missing from our puzzle piece, I was concerned that just she wouldn't fall apart. Greg and I would fall to pieces, too.

This wasn't something I could bring up, though. Meghan was leaving our tiny town behind with big goals, and I couldn't stop her. I had always been the practical one, the person who was both a Debbie Downer and a Practical Prudence. It was why I never got the boys while Meghan got them in spades.

But working hard and consequences was something that Meghan would have to learn for herself. So, as I forced a smile, I said, "Of course I saw it, Meg. And of course I trust you. I'm just worried. Okay?"

Meghan's face softened, and she kissed me on my forehead. "I'm gonna miss you, Nia. Really. It just won't be the same without you."

I shrugged. "Eh. I don't know- I'm not even sure if I'll notice that you're gone."

"Hey!" Meghan threw a pillow at my head, and I fell off the bed as it collided with my head. I moaned, and Meghan laughed, outstretching her hand to help me up. She had done the same thing so many times before that I couldn't even begin to count the numbers, stretching out that hand to help me up. I figured the least I could do was give her the benefit of the doubt.

I accepted the hand, letting her pull me up. "I'm really going to miss you," I said. "A bunch. Though you won't have to worry about me, I promise." I pushed a piece of my dark hair out of my eyes. "As soon as you get out of here, Greg and I are both going to hightail it somewhere else."

"So you've said." Meghan sat down on her bed for a moment while I sat on mine, a thoughtful look on her face. "Where are you two going to go? I mean, I don't want to be That Girl, but I've tried to get outta here more times than I can count. How are _you _going to pull it off?"

I shrugged. "I don't know about Greg. He's got his own agenda. You know him: awfully secretive, no matter what's going on." I bit my lip. "And I've got my own plan. It's a bit harebrained, but worth a shot."

My foster sister arched an eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

"No," I told her, as her face contorted in surprise. I smiled a bit, and went over to my desk. Pulling out a yellow Post-It note, I scribbled something down onto the piece of paper and handed it to her. Meghan took it with an incredulous look, somewhere between worry, calamity, stress, anger, and disbelief.

"'Seven-oh-seven Emery Lane'?" she asked, reading the paper. "'Atlanta, Georgia'?" Meghan gaped. "_Iphigenia Norton,_" she said, using my full name. I winced. "Did you buy a place? Without consulting me?"

"No," I said slowly. "Not exactly, anyway. But if you need me, this is where to find me. Just come to this address. I'll be there."

Meghan snorted. "I still can't believe you're shooting for Georgia. You'll never make it past New Hampshire. You're out of your frigging mind if you think you can somehow hitchhike from the north to the south. Out of your _mind._"

"Okay," I said simply.

Meghan just shook her head. "I'll never understand you, Nia," she said. "After ten years, I still don't get you. You're an indecipherable puzzle, never to be solved. I'm sure as hell not going to keep on trying."

"Whatever you say," I said, lying back on the bed and looking up at the ceiling. "But I know you love me. Whatever secret resentment you might have buried in your soul, you've got love stashed in there. No matter how deep."

"Of course I do," Meghan said. "We're sisters."

I propped myself up on my elbow, looking at her up and down. We were as different as could be. Meghan was beautiful, with long, honey-blonde curls, eyes the color of the sky, and full lips. Her face was round, her body soft and thin. She had been a heartbreaker even before she became beautiful.

I, on the other hand, was striking. There was a difference, I had learned. I wasn't especially pretty, or beautiful, like Meghan, but I still caught attention. My cheekbones high and sloping, my lips small but full, my hair a dark curtain that hung to my knees. Meghan and Greg had always teased me about my 'Rapunzel hair', but I loved my hair. I was skinny and all angles, with tan skin and freckles across the bridge of my nose. I didn't know what genetics had produced such an effect. I wasn't even nice to look at. I just drew attention.

We looked nothing alike. Acted nothing alike. Shared no blood.

And yet, we were sisters.

Looking at Meghan, just minutes before she was set to load her precious little belongings into a taxi on a one-way trip to New York City, I relished one of the last moments I would likely ever have with her.

"Yeah," I said. "We are sisters."

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><p>I ARRIVED IN Brookestone, Maine, when I was five years old.<p>

It was after the surgery, and I was still a bit uneasy on my legs. I was behind on my schoolwork, behind on my physical therapy, and behind on life. There was a forty percent chance that even with the plus of the surgery, I still wouldn't regain use of my legs. It was a scary thought.

In the end, it was Meghan who saved me. The foster care system dropped me off in Jules Norton's house without a second thought, letting me assume her last name and filing me under the Resolved folder. They probably thought that I'd be back in a few years, as most kids were. With Meghan, Greg, and I, though, that was never the case.

At the time, I was five, Meghan eight, and Greg four. We were a motley crew, but we were still a crew. As the oldest of us all, back then, Meghan took responsibility for us. She shielded us from Julie, taking the blame for every tiny slip-up or mistake. It was her, most of the time, who got slammed against the wall or went to school with a black eye. Every once in a while, my first grade teacher would ask me why I limped, or the librarian would inquire as to why Greg had a black eye.

Meghan always made up the excuses. This, in itself, was destructive. Greg and I didn't know it back then, but to some extent, Meghan did. She was a little bit selfish. She wanted a family, and Greg and I were the closest thing that she got.

"Oh, that?" she'd say to my teacher. "Nia just fell off the swings on the playground. It was right after it rained, so they were all slippery. She just wasn't being careful enough." By then, I had known never to voice anything. I stood by her, knowing that it was bad to lie but sometimes worse to tell the truth, bowing my head in silent agreement.

Then, to the librarian, Meghan would reply, "Oh, that? Greg just had a little accident in T-ball. A ball nailed him right in the eye." She'd smooth over Greg's mousy brown hair, planting a kiss on the top of his head. "Poor thing. We made sure to get some ice on it right away."

These statements each had a degree of truth to them all. _She just wasn't being careful enough. _This was true: I knew better than to leave the liquor cabinet unlocked or leave a crumpled napkin on the table, and I definitely knew better than to come downstairs when Julie called for me. _We made sure to get some ice on it right away. _That we did. After Julie calmed down, either going out for a drive or locking herself in her room with a bottle of whiskey and her late-night sitcoms, we all had a system.

I remembered the day that I arrived in Brookestone. Meghan had brought me and Greg upstairs- we had been a package, my foster brother and I- and knelt down. "Things aren't easy here," she told us softly. "I'm glad that you came. I always wanted a brother and sister. But you gotta know: it won't be easy."

At first, I didn't know what she meant. Greg didn't, either. But slowly, over time, we learned. There were rules in our household. They weren't laid out by parents, like normal families. No; instead, they were laid out by Meghan at first as what we called Survival Rules, and later, by me, with what we called Common Sense Rules.

The Survival Rules were brutal, and a learning experience. For instance: never, ever, leave the small bungalow that we all shared messy. Clean everything up. Make it pristine. Fortunately, I had always been a neat person. I could spot a speck of dust on a blanket from a mile away. That had always been my job.

Never, ever come down when Julie called for you after she got home. If that happened, it meant that she was angry. Meghan always reacted swiftly to this, noticing the slurring of Julie's words. She gathered Greg and I up into her arms, bringing us into our room and locking the door. She opened the window, and we all snuck out down the tree.

"It'll be like a game," she told us. "We have to climb down the tree to get outside. Whoever does it the fastest wins." She grinned at us, as if it were the most fun thing to do ever, climbing down a tree in the freezing dead of night.

"But I don't _wanna_," Greg had said that first time. "It's cold."

"Tell you what," Meghan said, frantic. "I've got some money stashed away. Whoever gets down the fastest will get a hot cocoa at the diner. We can go there after we climb down. Sound good?"

Both Greg and I agreed without preamble. Our house was three stories but tiny, and it was difficult to climb down without getting hurt. Once, I fell from the branches onto the ground. It was when I was seven years old, but I knew better than to cry out. With my foot broken, Meghan and Greg carried me all the way to the small clinic.

The doctor had asked what had happened, but Meghan had just used her charm. Even then, at the age of ten, she was a beauty. "Oh, that?" she'd said. Meghan always began the lie of our injuries with those two words. _Oh, that?_ As if it were some trivial, silly thing. "It's nothing. We were just climbing a tree and Nia fell. Just a silly little accident. Mama was too busy with work, so I thought I'd just run down here."

"Well," the doctor said, uncertain, "I still need a signature..."

But Meghan just flashed him that award-winning smile and, like every other crisis that fell our way, we sidestepped it. I arrived home with a cast and a medical bill the length of my arm, and went to school with all shades of blue, black, green, and purple. But it was averted. I worked off the medical bill, with the help of Greg and Meghan, and the accident was erased.

With the exception of the time that I had fallen, though, we always made it to the diner. We spent many a night at that diner, and Meghan eventually even stashed a hiding place for a change of clothes and essentials. Once or twice a week- or sometimes, two weeks- we'd head down to the diner and drink hot cocoa, falling asleep on the vinyl seats.

Greg and I didn't belong in that house. Neither did Meghan. And, in the end, it was Meghan's fault that we ended up there. She was selfish, and didn't want us to leave. She wanted so badly to have family that every single time that Julie got mad, she stepped up, brave and defiant as ever.

By the time that Greg and I realized what Meghan had done, we didn't want to leave. Meghan, Greg, and I were thick as thieves, and we were a united front against Julie for four years. And then, without warning, everything changed.

Meghan ran away for the first time.

It was after Christmas, when Julie was on one of her roughest benders. Meghan packed a bag and left in the dead of night. When Greg and I woke up, she was already gone. I had never seen Julie move so fast before. In a flash, she had called the cops, and Meghan was brought back to our house within an hour.

That was when everything changed. Meghan was no longer the protective sister. I, at the age of nine years old, had to be there, just as Meghan had been there at eight. I had a year on her. And from that day on, I did my best to keep us together. My Common Sense rules came into play. _Don't get drunk, _I'd say. _Curfew is until ten. Be careful. Don't cheat on tests. __  
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Greg was never much trouble. He was a good person in his heart, where it really mattered, and though he started smoking in sixth grade, that was one issue that I never bothered him on. I had tried my best to get him to quit, but in the end, Greg made the choice to continue. And so I let him. But otherwise, he had straight As, just like me and Meghan- though hers were for different reasons-, played soccer, and was college-bound.

Meghan, on the other hand, was a wreck. She became wild. A slut. I always thought it might have been easier if she wasn't so beautiful and if she didn't have a D-cup and a size-0 waist, but those were the facts. She was a magnet. In a town with the population of one thousand, she was truly extraordinary, and everyone knew it.

She slept around, with boys her age, boys not her age, and even, in a few occasions, teachers. It was always kept on the down-low, but I could always tell. It was when I told her that I disapproved that she stopped, and I used my power only in extreme circumstances.

Meghan came to school smoking joints. She earned her straight As not in academia at first, but in flashing her breasts not just as state troopers but also at teachers. It was the kind of behind-the-scenes drama that no one could ever prove but was happening anyway. She was drunk most of the time and had remnants of a high.

I tried my best for four years of my life, from the ages of nine to thirteen. But it was when I gave her the college packet that she really started to change.

"College, Nia?" Meghan had said, woozy. "I don't think so, hon. I'm just not cut out for it."

"But you could be," I had insisted. "You have the grades, and you can start earning them. This could be your ticket out, Meghan. You could get out of Brookestone. Make something of yourself. You don't have to be this person."

Still, she hadn't been sold. It was when I said, "Meghan. You don't have to keep on posing for the Gun Shop ads anymore. You can go to New York City, or Paris, or wherever. Show the world who you are. Meet boys. Live your life. Not everything's up to Julie. Your life's not over yet. You can still salvage it."

Meghan had looked at me. Really _looked. _"Do you really think so?" she said skeptically.

"There's not a doubt in my mind," I told her. "You can get into one of those schools, Meghan. I promise you. The foster care system's gonna kick you out at eighteen. Where are you going to go? Do you really want to end up like Julie?"

Meghan flinched. "Sorry," I said. "Maybe not exactly like her. But you know what I mean."

"Yeah," she had said quietly. "I do."

And after that, I had really succeeded. At the age of thirteen, I had rescued a girl and a boy from total destruction. I had put them before me for my entire life. They had always been the priority. Not me. In those four years that I tried to rescue Meghan, and the year and a half that I succeeded, I was paying back Meghan for those four years of shielding me from Julie.

Her reasons for keeping Greg and I there might have been wrong. But I couldn't say that I didn't understand them, and neither could Greg. We both wanted a family, and that's why, every time that Meghan left, we brought her back, saving her from her own personal anarchy.

Here's the thing: family isn't some black-and-white concept. It doesn't depend on blood, or genes. I never knew my parents. They could be bankers, or fishermen, or Greek gods, for all I cared. Just because they weren't a part of my life didn't mean that I didn't have family.

Over all those nights of hot cocoas at the local diner, with five year-old me coloring with a ballpoint pen on a legal pad that one of the waitresses had loaned us, with four year-old Greg passed out on the red vinyl seat, and eight year-old Meghan watching over us with a kind smile and a couple of dollars that she filched from Julie's liquor stash, we had become family. I couldn't say when, exactly, it had happened. But it still came true.

Meghan and Greg were my family. And now, with Meghan gone, and Greg and I leaving in the morning, I didn't know if I had any place to go. Greg and I couldn't stay at Julie's, that was without a doubt in my mind.

After Meghan left, I laid on my bed, just looking at my leather satchel hanging off the desk that Meghan and I both shared. Inside the satchel were my provisions for the trip: a Greyhound bus ticket to Atlanta, a Starbucks gift card, and fifty dollars. It probably wouldn't be enough. But I hoped to God that it would be enough to get me to my destination.

Life moved fast. The part of my life with my family was already over. It was far too long and far too short, and as I sat there in my bed and cried, thinking about all those nights of hot cocoa and Kraft macaroni and cheese, I could hear Greg's sobs from the adjoining room.

We had been a family. But that was over now. It was time to move on.

And so, with a Greyhound bus ticket, a Starbucks gift card, and fifty dollars in my back pocket, I prayed to God, Muhammed, the Vishnu, Jesus, and all deities above that I would arrive in my new family, with my new destiny.

I hoped to God that I'd make it to Atlanta.

There was nothing left for me in Brookestone now.

Not with Meghan gone.

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><p><strong>AN: A sad story, but I hope y'all still liked the intro! Please review!**


	2. TWO

**A/N: Hey, y'all! I'm back with Chapter Two!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own ****_Truth About Forever _****or any other Sarah Dessen books. The song featured in this chapter is ****_A Lack of Color _****by Death Cab for Cutie.**

**Rating: T**

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><p><em>This is fact, not fiction, <em>

_For the first time in years..._

-A Lack of Color Here, by **_Death Cab for_**_ **Cutie**_

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><p><strong>TWO<strong>

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><p>TYPICALLY, I LIVED a conformed life.<p>

I set parameters for myself: what I must do, and what I must not do. In a life as hectic, chaotic, and terrible as mine could be, there were a million different shades of gray in between the black and white. And so, in an effort to preserve the little that I knew as right and wrong, I set strict rules for myself.

It was another way that Meghan and I differed. We both cracked under the pressure of living in Julie's house, and having to mutually take care of Greg. Both of us were morphed and molded out of our difficult past, shaped by the nights of silent sobbing and hiding in beat-up diners just off the Maine interstate. The differences between us were many, but the biggest difference was _how _we cracked.

While Meghan got herself drunk on cheap whiskey out at the sole local bar and pub in town, I went the opposite way. By this time, I was nine, and I had seen the destruction that alcohol could do in Julie, and I was watching it happen again with Meghan. And so, call it an act of rebellion, or an over-correction, I went the opposite way. I became a responsible child.

It wasn't that I hadn't been responsible before. I had always been the most responsible out of the three of us, regardless of the day and age. But when Meghan left for the first time, I dug my heels in, and I went to my desk and made a list.

I still had that list. It was crumpled and messy, with shriveled bits where my tears had plopped onto the old yellow legal pad paper and dried. The ink was smeared and stained. And yet, it was still legible. In my straight block letters, I could still read what I had written so very long ago: a list of rules.

_1, _I had written. _Don't stay out late. 2: Don't drink alcohol. 3: Don't do drugs. 4: Get good grades. 5: Work hard. _

It was this list that had evolved into our Common Sense Rules in our household. Though, truthfully, I had made lists like this before. I was something of a list fanatic, though I had good reasons. On paper, written in my black ballpoint pen, the obstacles I needed to overcome seemed much smaller.

Perhaps this was what made it work. To this very day, I had never drank alcohol. I had never taken a hit from a joint or a drag from a Marlboro. I had straight As all the way down my report card, and worked hard to achieve them. Lists were my own personal Bible. There, on my little yellow legal pad, with a pros and cons T-chart, my goals were achievable. Just out of reach.

But that day that I looked in the folder, everything changed.

I was no longer a girl confined to her boundaries and what was _black and white _or _right and wrong _or _good or bad. _The day that I went down to my social worker's office was arguably one of the worst in my life. It was the day that my life changed forever, though it didn't seem like it at the time. Then, it had just been a flicker, a brief instant, in what would become my life.

It was the day that Meghan had run away again, in sophomore year, when I was twelve. This time, it didn't seem like she was going to come back. She had been gone almost four hours, her all-time record, and she was likely still in the state. It hurt that she had left.

It would have been bad enough if Pat Jenson hadn't hung my underwear from the flagpole the day that Meghan ran. That was a burning shame that I'd never forget. They were plain white cotton briefs, made granny-style. People pointed and laughed. I didn't even think they _knew _why they were laughing. The prank wasn't that funny, after all.

The sheer size of the prank was what made it funny, though really, there was nothing to laugh about at all.

I had hitched a bus down to Portland, where I stormed into my social worker's office without another thought. She wasn't available, of course. She never was. This was what saved me, in the end; her lack of caring or love. In the office, all by myself, my anger began to simmer down, and I was left with nothing but an aching emptiness inside of me. I cried. For a long time.

There was nothing more pathetic than a scrawny, malnutritioned girl sobbing her eyes out on a fake-leather couch in a dilapidated apartment building in Portland. I just cried into the pillows smelling of stale cigarette smoke and body odor, not caring that the peculiar smell made my eyes water. I was, after all, already crying.

After my eyes dried, I had gotten up and walked around the room. Feeling reckless and sad, I felt a boiling urge to do something bad. It was the way I was, really: part of me was goody-goody, kind, quiet, and neat, while the other part of me was spontaneous and dark, just waiting to spring. The two parts of me were always warring. Typically, the goody-goody side won. That day, the rebellious side won.

I opened the file cabinet, seeing that it had been left unlocked. The files were dusty, as if they hadn't been edited in some time. I rifled through the papers, and eventually found one. My entire body stilled, and for one moment, I couldn't breathe. There, printed with a typewriter font on a manila folder, were three words.

**Iphigenia Hermione Baker**

My last name wasn't Baker. It was Norton- or so Julie had said. Truthfully, Meghan, Greg, and I had all known that we had other last names. Later, Meghan would find out that hers was O'Malley when she applied to NYU. Greg's was Jerome, as it turned out. And mine, I found out right there. _Baker._

There weren't many people with a name like mine. Iphigenia Hermione. It had been the gift of a nurse in the hospital, a notorious Trojan War nerd who had passed away years ago. When I was little, and staying in the hospital because of the surgery, I remembered the nurse talking to me. It was my earliest memory, and fuzzy at that.

"Iphegenia," my nurse said, "is the name of Queen Clytemnestra of Mycenae's daughter. A lovely girl, really." She hummed, braiding my hair. I didn't remember where we were, or what our conversation had been about. Just this piece. "Of course, she was later sacrificed so that the great god Poseidon would allow the Greeks to sail across the se and wage war on Troy. But don't worry, my dear. Artemis, goddess of the hunt, saved her. Now Iphigenia looks over the deer. And as for Hermione..." The nurse paused. "Well, that's easy. No question why I chose that. She's the daughter of Queen Helen of Sparta, and later, Troy. Helen and Hermione are both the most beautiful women in the world." She traced my cheekbone. "And I can tell that you'll be a pretty one."

The nurse had no way to know that I wasn't pretty. Or beautiful, even. I was _striking. _There was always a difference: Meghan was beautiful. Me, with my hair so dark that it was almost black, hanging to my knees, almost always put up in some elaborate hairstyle, and the cheekbones that were as high and sloping as Angelina Jolie's, bright blue eyes, startling and intense, and tan skin, I wasn't beautiful. It was the sort of way that you looked at a particularly large spider, or a slithering snake: they were interesting to look at, but not enjoyable to look at.

But, anyway, my name wasn't common. I knew that there was only one Iphigenia Hermione, and that _Baker _was likely my last name. It struck me for a moment. Baker. It was the last name of my father, and of my uncle, if I had one, of my grandfather, if I had one, of cousins, perhaps, or even estranged second relations.

Quickly, hands trembling, I opened that folder. There was only one paper I got to before the door creaked open and my social worker stormed over to me, whipping it out of my hands. That one was enough. It was just three sentences- not even, really. But it was enough.

**Birth father: Wesley J. Baker**

**Address: 707 Emery Lane, Atlanta, Georgia**

**Relations to mother: highschool relationship**

**Relationship status: terminated**

And that was the moment that my life changed forever.

* * *

><p>THE BUS DRIVER looked at me skeptically.<p>

"Honey," she said, drawling her vowels lazily in her Southern accent. "You don't look like eighteen years old to me." The bus driver arched an eyebrow, giving me a once-over. She was a grizzled old woman with a beehive, frosted hairstyle that emanated an air of hairspray. Her fingers and teeth were stained black from tobacco, and she wore large sunglasses and denim. The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted up from her.

I smiled brightly, flashing my teeth. "Of course I am, ma'am," I said, giving her the fake ID that I had picked up from Meghan's friend Joel a few weeks ago. "I'm just small for my age, that's all."

The last part _was _true: I was small for my age at barely fifteen. I looked like I was still in middle school. I didn't know how I managed to pull this off, but Meghan's friend Joel made a good fake ID -he had gotten Meghan into plenty of bars, anyway- and it looked authentic. And I also had the ability to pay my way out of any situation.

"Mm-hm," the bus driver said, nonplussed. She sighed, smacking the ID down on her dashboard. "License and registration, please."

I was ready. Pulling out my wallet, I made an effort to slow down my actions, careful to make me not seem so anxious. While my heart was hammering in my chest, I concentrated on breathing. Finally, after what seemed like forever, I pulled out a driver's license- forged- and a social security card- also forged.

The bus driver inspected them both. She gave me a dubious look. "Honey, these ain't real. How're you expectin' to make me drive you down the eastern seaboard?"

Again, I was ready. I pulled twenty-five dollars out of my back pocket, slapping ten into her palm. "Ten for your silence," I said, "and fifteen for letting me board. And an extra five for claiming ignorance." I pulled out another five on impulse.

The bus driver flicked her gaze. Then, looking the other way, she held out her palm. "I didn't see _nothin_," she told me, raising her eyes to the ceiling of the bus.

I grinned. "Perfect," I said, slapping the money in her palm. Then, I walked to the back of the bus, sitting down in a plush blue seat. The bus would likely be nearly empty- at the beginning, anyway- as we took off at four o' clock. Julie would just be getting to bed.

For the first time, I saw the home stretch in front of me. Here I was, on a bus to Atlanta, Georgia, with a beat-up iPod shuffle, some earbuds, and a world of possibilities in front of me. Despite the gravity of my situation, I felt a little smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

There was only one other person as Frosted Beehive Hair prepared to take off from the station: an old man reeking of liquor and cigarettes. The Greyhound bus was no kind place, and I had no illusions: this was not a place to fall asleep on. I needed to pay attention to the aisle, Frosted Beehive Hair, the drunkard, and not doze off in the blue plush seats.

"_Wait!" _

Frosted Beehive Hair stopped, furrowing her eyebrows. I watched, hardly believing my eyes. A boy hardly older than me, around fifteen or sixteen, banged his fist on the door of the bus. He had short hair, and a tall, lanky frame. His eyes were wide as he knocked on the door frantically. "_Wait!" _he shouted desperately. "_Please!" _

Frosted Beehive Hair looked at him skeptically, but hit the button to let him in. The boy bounced up the stairs, a clumsy mess of flailing limbs and disembodied parts. Without warning, he flung his arms around the bus driver. "Oh, _thank _you!" he said, smiling broadly. "You, Madame, are truly one in a million. A lifesaver. A goddess, if you will."

I snickered as the bus driver waved him off, impatient. "Yeah, yeah. You got payment, Skeleton?"

Skeleton put a hand to his heart in mock dismay. "_É tú, Brute?" _he said. Frosted Beehive Hair looked on, nonplussed. Skeleton sighed. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just go ahead and ignore the arts, will ya?" He shifted a large backpack, and I noticed, with some interest, that a guitar was slung across his back. He gave the bus driver an ID.

"Honey," Frosted Beehive Hair said. "This says that you're a Hector Dustin Jones. You're fifteen in this picture, and your parents-"

"Oh, let's not talk about my parents," Hector Dustin Jones said quickly. He rifled through his back pocket. "Look, lady. Here's fifty bucks. My parents- especially my mom- will track me down anyway, but I've kind of got something to do down in Atlanta. So could you maybe just cut me a break?"

I felt a twinge of sympathy for Hector, and the bus driver pursed her lips. "Back there," she said, jabbing a thumb towards the back of the bus. "Jesus Christ. Already got myself eighty dollars, and it ain't even six in the morning." She whooped. "It's gonna be a good day today!"

Hector gave her a confused look, but shrugged and headed towards the back of the bus. I slouched, compacting my body. It was a tactic that I had performed many times under Julie, and even with Meghan when I was younger. There weren't many pluses to being tiny and curve-less, but this was definitely one of them.

He was even clumsier coming back. His guitar case bounced off of every chair as he went all the way to the back, where I was sitting. _Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. _I uncurled myself, watching him with unreserved curiosity.

Hector was tall- almost six and a half feet tall, maybe seven. He had a quick, easy grin that fit his physique; all bones and no skin. Frosted Beehive Hair had christened him Skeleton well. He had a shock of bright blond hair on top of his head, which he habitually ran a hand through. He wore jeans and a t-shirt that read _MUSIC: IT'S THE CRACKPOT WAY! _

I just stared at him. This was my company. Hector Jones.

Go figure.

"Hey," he said to me, sliding down into the seat across from mine. "You know, if you slouch any further, you'll probably be devoured by that seat. It's already kind of swallowing you up."

I blinked.

He grinned, a small, lopsided thing that had the own corners of my mouth twitching uncontrollably. "So you're the extra thirty bucks that Jersey Shore's got, right?" he said, matter-of-factly.

"Jersey Shore?" I said, words beginning to come back to me.

"What? You never heard that phrase before or something?" Hector gave me A Look. "You know, it means tramp. Hussy. Slut. Trashy. Wh-"

"I know what it means," I snapped. I straightened, looking him dead in the eye. "And yes. I am the person who handed her the extra thirty bucks. And y'know, that wasn't very smart, the way you just handed her the fifty. You have to tell her specifically what it's for. If ya don't, you'll be caught in a heartbeat."

"Tell her specifically?"

"Well, duh." I leaned back in the chair, examining my fingernails. "You know, like, if you had fifty bucks, you give her twenty-five for letting you board- and driving you-, ten for silence, and fifteen for claiming ignorance. Now you're screwed."

Hector laughed. "Done this before?"

My cheeks heated up. "I don't see how that's any of your business. Not everyone goes around spitting their life story out at random bus drivers. You are aware of this, correct? We really don't want to know about your monsters under the bed."

"Wow," he said slowly. "You're almost as bad as my mother."

"Excuse me?"

"You," Hector said, "are like my mother. Both gorgeous. Both intelligent. And both rigid hard-asses who don't take shit from anybody." He laughed bitterly. "It just goes to show my luck. I run away from my parents, and I end up on a bus with a replica."

My jaw dropped. "Well, at least I don't go insulting people with the first thing I say!" I shot back. "I understand that we can't all be Sasquatch with a _Ripley's Believe it or Not _record-breaking height, but you don't have to go pointing it out!"

Hector paused. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"And I- wait, what?" I stared at him in disbelief. "You're 'sorry'? That's it? You're just going to give it up, just like that." Frosted Beehive Hair/Jersey Shore pulled out of the Greyhound parking lot. City lights flicked over his face, bathing it in a warm orange glow.

"Yeah." His lips twitched. "It kind of became essential when dealing with my mother. She liked to pick a fight. About _everything. _Anything I did, I did wrong. Anything she did, she did right. You have to know how to pick and choose your battles."

"Why do you do that? Just regurgitate your life story?" I snorted. "It's not like you want to know mine."

"Of course I do," Hector said, surprising me. When I gave him an incredulous look, he shrugged. "I'm serious! I don't think that humans should go around carrying all this baggage, you know? I like honesty. Just putting it out in the open. I mean, shit. It's not like our demons aren't there, anyway, right?"

I stared at him.

He leaned back in his seat. "Look. You wanna know my life story? That, I won't tell you. But I will tell you the basics: my mother's an uptight bitch, model-gorgeous businesswoman in New York City. She had a romance with a musician when she was eighteen, and when she was twenty-one, said musician got her pregnant. Making me. My father's a deadbeat. Stuck in rehab." He shrugged. "What about you?"

"What makes you think I would tell you?" I said. "Honestly. I didn't ask for all your crap to be dumped on me." I laughed, leaning my head back and looking at the stars outside the bus window. "And I guarantee you, as rough as you've had it, I've had it worse."

"Really," Hector said quietly. "And what makes you think that?"

I smiled at him, but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a bitter, tough smile, hard as nails, brittle as ice. "I think that," I said, "because even if your family sucks, you still have it. And no matter what you try to tell yourself at night, a mother is still better than no mother at all."

And with that, I pulled my iPod shuffle out of my pocket. Hector was silent for a moment, and while I fiddled with my earbuds, he just stared at me. There was something unnerving about his gaze. As I plugged my earbuds in, I listened to the song, rocking myself along to the first few bars of the song.

_And when I see you,_

_I really see you upside down._

_But my brain knows better-_

_It picks you up and turns you around,_

_Turns you around, turns you around._

I had twenty-one hours on this bus with Hector Jones. But after that, I'd be free in the city, going towards new beginnings. What I said to Hector was true: I never had a mother. Meghan was as close as it got, and she abandoned me every chance she got.

But if I played my cards right, I just might- _maybe_- get my happy ending after all, complete with mother and all. And so, in the long run, Hector Jones didn't matter. Wouldn't matter.

Not at all.

_If you feel discouraged,_

_That there's a lack of color here,_

_Please don't worry lover,_

_It's really bursting at the seams_

_For absorbing everything-_

_The spectrum's A to Z._

_This is fact, not fiction_

_For the first time in years_

_All the girls in every girlie magazine_

_Can't make me feel any less alone_

_I'm reaching for the phone..._

_To call at 7:03 and on your machine I slur a plea for you to come home-_

_But I know it's too late._

_I should have given you a reason to stay_

_Given you a reason to stay_

_Given you a reason to stay_

_This is fact, not fiction_

_For the first time in years..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hope you all liked it! Please, please review!**


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